Wine and Cheap Perfume
by Sarahrose660
Summary: Rentboy AU. Kurt Hummel doesn't want a saviour. He doesn't need a saviour. He's perfectly happy with his life, and how's it's turned out. Until Blaine Anderson comes back into the picture and suddenly, being saved doesn't seem like such a bad thing.
1. Don't Ever Look Back

A/N: I've been working on this for several months, and I've decided to post the first chapter of it to celebrate the end of my exams. Roll on ten weeks of uninterupted writing time!

Warnings: This is lot darker than anything I've written before, and includes: Homophobia, Dub-Con, Alcoholism, Depression, Self Harm and Prostitution.

Wine and Cheap Perfume

Chapter One – Don't Ever Look Back

_Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world…_

Kurt can pinpoint the exact moment he snapped, the exact moment he knew he had to leave Lima and not come back. It had been a Sunday afternoon, walking through town on his way to buy some more saffron from that odd little deli that was the only place to sell it. He remembers the guys coming up behind him, grabbing his arms and punching him repeatedly in the stomach and chest. Curling into a ball to protect his head and face while insults fell down on him, acid rain burning his skin. Faggot. Fairy. Queer. Harsh, cruel words that tore at his mind even as they tore at his body.

When they left him, crying and in agony on the sidewalk, not one person stopped to help. It was like McKinley all over again, people observing but never standing up. Because they were scared, because they agreed with the bullies. Because they _couldn't be bothered._ Kurt finds the strength to stand, limp home and dodge all of Burt's questions, avoid all of Carole's hugs and Finn's confused stares.

School is the same the next morning, bullies pushing him into lockers and Karofsky's stares making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He sits through French class, tense and unhappy, in pain from the bruises that layer his skin. And it's while he's sitting there, staring around at the vacant expressions of his peers, that he realises; this is all his life is ever going to be. Pain and lies and taunts, every day for another two years. And Kurt doesn't think he can take that. When the bell goes for the end of school, he runs.

_He took the midnight train going anywhere…_

He leaves a note, his usually beautiful handwriting smudged and smeared by tears he hadn't even realised were falling. It's midnight when he sneaks out of the house, silver moonlight emphasizing his face, the dips and shadows of it laid out. He stops at his father's bedroom, slipping open the door and resting his eyes on the mound on the bed that he knows is his father. He stares at him for what feels like hours but is only in fact a few minutes. He wants to believe so badly that this is for the best, that Burt would want this. That his father has a new family now, a wife and a son who likes football and girls, just like he always wanted. Kurt can't quite do it, can't quite suppress the part of his mind that screams otherwise but he ignores it.

The house is silent as he creeps through it, as he unlocks the front door and slips outside. He runs all the way to the train station, light footsteps like cat leaps. He doesn't even look at the board; he just chooses a train and gets on it, buying the ticket with the little money he had taken. Burt and Carole need it more than him, after all.

In his pocket, Kurt can feel his phone vibrate and he pulls it out. His heart aches a little when he sees that it's from Blaine, and then it hardens. He's let down Blaine, running away like he said he never would. The phone in his hand suddenly seems red hot; the cool metal burning as it almost seems to brand his skin. Liar. Fraud. Acid rises in Kurt's throat, threatening to overcome him even as he pulls the phone from his pocket and hurls it out of the train window. It hits the ground, and all Kurt can see as he is whisked away is a burst of blue from the flowers it lands in.

Back in his room at Dalton, Blaine smiles to himself, lifting his features and giving him an almost luminous glow. The phone in his hand displays the message that was just sent: _Need to see you tomorrow. Great news! – Blaine x _

Blaine imagines how it will go. He'll sit down with Kurt in that little coffee shop they both love so well and explain to him what Blaine's done… what all the Warblers have done. A full scholarship, based on his good grades and the desperate desire the Warblers have to win Regionals (with Kurt's voice among them.) Kurt's face will light up, Blaine thinks, as he realises the implications. He can come back to Dalton. Dalton, where they may be straight jacketed, but there are no bullies or slurs or freezing slushies to the face.

Blaine imagines how Kurt will throw his arms around Blaine's neck and he will finally have an excuse to hold the boy close, savour his touch. If it goes well enough, Blaine thinks, he might even give into the urge he's been fighting for weeks and kiss Kurt. With that thought in mind, he turns over and quickly falls asleep, unaware of the pain that is to come the following morning.

_A singer in a smoky room… the smell of wine and cheap perfume…_

At first, it was enough. A gig every night in a seedy bar, singing songs with his high clear voice trembling as men raked his body with their eyes. And then custom started to drop. _Why not dress you as a girl?_ Kurt's boss had suggested, and Kurt had been too lost in his own dark world of humiliation and infamy to notice. Which is how he ends up on a wobbly stage, make up smeared inexpertly over his face, body laced into a short dress and thigh high boots.

There is a pole in the middle of the stage and Kurt uses it, Cheerio's training giving him the flexibility to perform tricks and stunts until the crowd is screaming for more. If a few drunken lechers can be called a crowd. Kurt can feel the lights on him; feel his make up slipping and his hair become wild. Sweat drips down his neck, mingling with the cheap perfume he sprayed there earlier, all part of the sordid illusion. Wine is spilled on the floor, and Kurt can smell it, the rancid stench reminding him of the bambi fiasco, so many years ago. Or was it months? Kurt can't remember anymore.

Catcalls come from the crowd, but Kurt barely hears them. He's busy concentrating on the song, trying to get his voice to soar and dip with passion the way it used to. It won't do it. It sounds coarse and flat to his own ears, and it's not a surprise when he's fired.

_Let you put your hands on me in my skin tight jeans…_

Kurt tries to get another job, he really does. But he's seventeen, with no prospects, barely any qualifications and an aura of neglect about him. He starts to sell off his clothes, one designer piece at a time until he's dressed in cheap garments he scavenged from a charity shop. He has nowhere to live, the small flat he rented a corner in long gone. The streets are cold at night, ice biting into his bones and gnawing at his flesh. Some days he dreams of home, of his family… of Blaine. And then he remembers how he ran away and his resolve will strengthen.

Kurt can take sleeping on the streets, wearing second hand clothes. It's when his bones start to poke through his skin that he realises what his problem is. He's been on the Cheerio's, knows how to deal with hunger. Kurt knows what it is to feel famine bite and twist in his gut, a ravenous beast screeching to be heard. At first, he copes, soothing the pain with water leeched from local wells and public fountains. But eventually, Kurt knows what he has to do.

His first time is nothing like he had imagined it. In his head Kurt saw candles, soft music, a proper bed. He saw a boy with dark curly hair and hazel eyes undress him slowly, lay him out on the bed while he shook, grass in a summer breeze. Fingertips would graze his skin, gentle hands would trace his body. Lips would whisper how beautiful he was, how special, how much he was wanted. The boy would love him, slowly and surely, until he peaked and Kurt's name would spill from his lips. And they would lie, enfolded in each other's embrace until the sun rose.

Kurt's first time is nothing like that. Hands grasp at him roughly, practically ripping his clothes from his body in desperate haste. Kurt can hear the bustle of the street, not too far from the shady alley they are standing in. The man strokes over his sides as he would a cat, and Kurt just tries to close his eyes and imagine he is somewhere else. The pain is overwhelming, tearing through his body and ripping away everything but the sense of it. Kurt bites his lip, warm blood filling his mouth as he waits for the man's frantic thrusting to stop. When it does, he feels the warmth spread inside him, drip down the inside of his thighs, wet and sticky and _wrong._ More pain as the man pulls out, muttering words like _slut_ and _whore_, not the gentle endearments Kurt longs to hear.

_One quick look as each of them leaves you…_

The man almost throws the five dollar note at him before he hurries away, not even bothering to check if Kurt is bleeding, if he is alright. Kurt looks at the crumpled note in his hand and feels shame and bile rise within him. He retches onto the cold, stone floor of the alleyway and lies there, curled up, as he realises the bitter truth; he sold his virginity to a stranger for five dollars.

_Strangers waiting up and down the boulevard…_

After that, it just becomes routine, although Kurt charges more. He starts out small, just a few men every few days. Not enough to earn much money, but enough to eat. But then the days start getting shorter, the nights become colder and Kurt huddles in doorways, desperate to escape the icy chill in the air. He starts to work every night, hips swaying as he paces the street, body poised suggestively. He grows used to the eyes of men and women alike dancing appreciatively over his body, grows used to the haggle of prices and the rough sex in dark alleyways. He learns how to attract custom, how to flutter his eyelashes in just the right way to keep them interested.

_Working hard to get my fill… everybody wants a thrill…_

He starts to work more and more, two a night and then three. Rough men, women with track marks on their arms. Those who are clearly married, twisting their wedding rings over their fingers as they agree the price. Kurt learns how to please them all, and then some. After a while, he has enough money to rent a small flat. The walls are dark and grimy, some unidentifiable fungus growing in the corners. The floor is uncovered stone, cold and hard when Kurt walks on it. Kurt knows there are rats, knows there are fleas. He rents it anyway, and he finally has a new home. And if he ever thinks of his old home, he hides it well.

_Living just to find emotion…_

Kurt becomes numb to it, the days spent curled up asleep, the nights spent satisfying anyone and everyone with the coin to pay for his body. He's losing weight, he's losing sleep and his clothes are still rags. Loneliness and depression rage through his mind, twisting and taunting him the few times he ever gets a rest. He sees the drugs others like him take, sees their vacant expression and scarred arms and knows he can't turn into that. He finds his salvation another day, after a long night of hard work. A vodka bottle lying in the alley, a few dregs left in the bottom. Not caring of the danger, Kurt drains it, body screaming in ecstasy as the scorching burn of the alcohol slides down his throat and into his stomach.

Kurt can feel the warmth of it like a real heartbeat, resting in his chest cavity and keeping him safe and alive. The night after that, he goes and buys a full bottle, sipping it carefully to prolong the burn that he's only just learning to love.

_Hold on to that feeling…_

But soon, alcohol stops being enough. Kurt sees it happen slowly, as he needs more and more just to keep going. He looks at the drugs again, contemplation filling his eyes for a moment before he turns away. He may have sunk low, but he's not far enough gone for that. Instead, he finds another way to cope. His razor is old, and it doesn't take more than ten minutes for him to wrestle the tiny blades free, cutting his hands and fingers accidentally in the process. He pulls one out and holds it up to the light, marvelling at the way it glitters and gleams, promising an end to everything.

Kurt stares at the jagged edges for a moment before he runs it over one arm, gasping when the blood flows free. It stings at first, the pain sharpening everything and making him – for one blissful second – forget the fact that he's in a cramped bathroom, surrounded by darkness and pain, slicing into his own flesh just to feel something.

Pain slowly ebbs away, leaving a dull ache that is maddening and Kurt realises he needs more. He slices again, gasping in dull surprise at how good it feels. Blood flows in earnest now, slipping over the cuts. It's too red, too much and Kurt runs the blade through it experimentally. Not to hurt, not to maim. Just to look. He spreads the blood with the blade edge, smiling morbidly at the clashing contrast of the crimson with his porcelain skin. It looks pretty, spread out like that, and Kurt keeps going until his arm is a mess of lacerations and red liquid.

That night, he falls asleep properly for the first time in months.

_Got no strings, got men attached…_

Kurt keeps going with it; the tiny, dingy flat, the alcohol most nights and cutting twice a day. Months merge into seasons, seasons bleed into years. Kurt can only keep track by the cheap calendar he brought one Christmas, the one he diligently ticks off every day so that he knows the date. He doesn't talk to his old friends, doesn't have any new ones. His family are far behind him, and he can't even remember his own age anymore. He works every night, drinks himself to sleep and then starts it all up again. It's starting to be the only thing he knows.

oOoOo

To be continued...


	2. We Never Said Goodbye

Wine and Cheap Perfume

Chapter Two – We Never Said Goodbye

_Too long I've been afraid of losing love I guess I've lost_…

"Hey, Blaine! Wait up," the voice calls, high and far too loud over the background noise of campus. Reluctantly, Blaine slows his walk, pulling off his headphones and silencing the Maroon Five that was blaring from them mere moments ago. His eyes close in exasperation and then open again, face warm and split into a smile to greet the boy now stood behind him.

"Hi, Henry," Blaine replies, hoping his voice sounds happy and welcoming to his fellow law student, but really not caring if it doesn't. The other boy smiles, a strand of blonde, tousled hair falling into one eye as he ducks his head forward shyly.

"So, I was wondering… there's this new club opened up in town. It looks kind of nice. I was just wondering if… you know… if you wanted to go… tonight?" Henry stumbles out, cheeks bright pink, gaze firmly fixed on his shoes. For a moment, Blaine just stares at him, shock evident on his face. Dating… now that's something Blaine hasn't considered in a long time. Dating means caring, caring means feelings, feelings mean love, love means getting your heart stamped on, ripped out, set on fire while the other person laughs and glories in your pain.

_Well if that's love, it comes at much too higher cost…_

If he closes his eyes, Blaine can almost see him, the only boy he's ever been in love with. Pale expanses of skin, flushed cheeks, begging for Blaine's gentle touch and soft caresses. Eyes – _glasz, Kurt had laughed, his bright smile causing Blaine's heart to stutter uncomfortably in his chest – _sparkling and laughing, beautiful and alive. Lips, pink and Blaine imagined they would have been soft to the touch. And the inner strength Blaine could never find, that fierce determination to fight and keep on fighting, even when he was lost. Most of all, the light shining from Kurt's every action, every word. That inner beauty, whether he was crying or singing or laughing, that screamed _"I'm better than all this."_ And Blaine knew he was.

When Blaine compares him to the boy in front of him, Henry looks pale, drab, ordinary. Handsome enough. Taller than Blaine, able to sing well – both important qualities to Blaine. But missing that vital life that Blaine craves. Blaine turns his head slightly, opening his eyes again and sighing. Three years. Three years of waiting for Kurt, going on single dates but always looking behind him, always hoping to catch a glimpse of those eyes, that smile. Blaine had to move on, he had to.

"Sounds great," he forces out, trying to feel happy when Henry's face splits into a wide smile.  
>"Great. Well, I'll… err… I'll call you tonight and meet you there," the boy gushes, reaching out tentatively to pat Blaine on the arm before he scurries away, book bag bouncing against his leg as he goes. Blaine's eyes follow him, mapping out the contours of his body for a few seconds before he turns away, sigh on his lips.<p>

_So scared of breaking it that you won't let it bend…_

Blaine turns slowly in front of his mirror, taking in the sight of his body, clad in fashionable clothes and soft materials. His fingers trace the planes of his chest, the slight curve of his neck, the jut of his hipbones that just show through his jeans. His hair is lightly gelled, less so than it was when he was a teenager, and it curls softly around his ears. He looks good, even to his own critical eyes, and for a moment Blaine just stares at himself, as though looking at a stranger.

And then his eyes drift to the clock, mounted on the wall of the flat he shares with two others and the spell is broken. With a yelp, Blaine grabs his coat, pulling it roughly around his shoulders as he dives out of the door, yelled goodbyes still ricocheting off the walls after he has left.

_We're going to lose our minds tonight…_

When Blaine arrives, the street surrounding the club is full of half-drunken young people, out for a night on the town. Their bodies mingle together, the smell of sweat and two-for-one tequila shots filling the warm air. Blaine weaves his way deftly between them, pushing his way past the sobbing girls and ribald boys until he sees the lamp post that Henry is waiting under.

Blaine has to admit, his date looks nice. Tight, fitted jeans and a dark red polo shirt adorn Henry's body, showing off his hard, defined chest and tapered hips. He looks good, and Blaine can see several other boys and plenty of girls eyeing up his date with looks that could be called ravenous, cannibalistic even. A small, obnoxious part of Blaine's brain is screaming at him to leave, go, forget Henry and hold out for the boy he lost years ago. Angrily, Blaine brushes it aside. That ship has sailed so far out of the harbour, it's not even in sight now. But Henry is, and Blaine throws his shoulders back as he marches over to the other boy, feeling an odd flush of something in his chest when Henry catches sight of him and waves.

The walk towards each other is awkward, both of them knowing that the other is there and yet unwilling to lock eyes because it seems too raw and intense. Instead they both glance at the dimly lit pavement, the revellers around them, anything until they are less than a metre apart and grinning self-consciously at each other. Blaine opens his mouth to speak but can't seem to find the words, gesturing instead that Henry should start the conversation.

When he doesn't, Blaine rolls his eyes a little, before offering his arm to Henry, which the other boy gladly takes.  
>"Shall we?" he asks, dapper mask that he learned at Dalton coming forward and plastering itself to his face. At Henry's flushed, shy nod, Blaine grasps his date more firmly and steers them towards the entrance of the club, towards the pulsating lights and thrashing music.<p>

_Taking me places I ain't never been… _

Inside the club, the music levels are nearly unbearable, as is the impossible crush of bodies gyrating to it. It seems that everywhere Blaine looks, he can see couples, threesomes, whole groups dancing close together, hands wandering and caressing every piece of skin on show; which in this place, seems to be a lot. Beside him, Blaine can see a flush of red on Henry's cheeks as he also surveys the scene before them, his pink mouth open slightly. Smiling, Blaine grabs his date's hand and pulls him over to the overcrowded bar, jostling amongst the other patrons in a bid to get some sort of alcohol in their systems.

When Blaine finally manages to shout an order at the barman and get his drinks, he hands one silently to Henry, before tipping his head back and swallowing the vodka in his shot glass. The burn makes his throat sting, and for a moment he gaps, unused to the sensation of fire and ice chasing each other down his throat. And then it clears, the warm weight of the alcohol already making him feel looser, softer. A few shots later, and he's ready to dance.

_I love when it's all too much… _

The beat of the music pulses through Blaine's body as he sways in time, his hands clutching at Henry's waist and pulling him even closer to his body. His heart is racing faster than it ever has done, he feels alive and all he can see is Henry in front of him, in his arms, their bodies intertwined by their hands, their legs, by everything. They dance faster and faster, their bodies flush against each other and pushing, pulling, anything to feel something again. Henry shouts something over the music but Blaine can't hear him, doesn't want to hear him. All he wants to do is stay like this forever, the warmth of the alcohol in his system giving him courage and making him forget about everything that's ever hurt him.

In a daze he pulls Henry closer, bringing their faces within inches of each other as he breathes the other boy in. He can see Henry's eyes flutter closed, his breathing deepen. His pale eyelashes brush his cheeks, and for a moment, Blaine is reminded of another boy who looked like that, transported by the music surrounding him. Blaine wrenches back from the memory, surging forward and fusing his lips with Henry's in a desperate attempt to forget everything, to get back to just feeling. And Henry kisses him back, two arms going around Blaine's waist and tugging him closer as the mouth under his opens.

And then Henry is pulling away and yelling something again, his mouth closer to Blaine's ear this time. All Blaine can do is shake his head and point towards the exit. He feels a slight tug in his lower gut as Henry takes his hand and pulls him through the pulsating crowd, the bodies around them parting easily to allow them through. There was a time when he did this, when he guided a lost boy through a maze so much harder to navigate than even this one.

_It's much too late to find you think you've changed your mind…_

As soon as they hit the icy air outside of the club, Blaine's head stops spinning so much, and he's able to focus on the grinning face of Henry. His fellow classmate is still holding his hand, gripping it tightly in his own and seeming to ignore the catcalls and wolf whistles that are coming from all around them. Flushed, Blaine pulls his hand away, noticing how much colder it is where Henry is no longer touching him. The blue eyes trained on his waiver slightly, his date clearly confused at his change of heart. For a moment, Blaine just watches him, and feels the regret of what he did flush through his with enough force to make him want to take a step backwards.

This is Henry, his friend, someone he has no romantic attraction to and is just using to forget someone he should have forgotten long ago. He makes to step back, just as Henry's hands touch his face and pull him down for another kiss. This one is less frantic, more slow and languid, and Blaine allows himself to enjoy it more, wrapping his arms around Henry's waist and just leaving them there, just enjoying the way it feels to have someone in his arms after so long. The other boy feels warm and secure against him, and for a moment, Blaine feels happier than he ever has done. When Henry pulls away, pressing one last, lingering kiss to his lips before he does, Blaine smiles properly at his date, the happiness he feels inside clearly visible on his face.

"I should go," Henry says breathlessly, smoothing one hand self consciously through his dishevelled blonde hair, "we've got class tomorrow." He makes no move to leave though, and Blaine chuckles a little under his breath, noticing how Henry's eyes dilate at the sound.

"So go," Blaine murmurs, pressing a kiss on Henry's lips quickly and then pushing the other boy away from him. He hears the other boy's laugh one last time before he is swallowed by the crowd of revellers.

_Feel the early morning madness…_

Blaine shakes his head fondly and begins to weave his way through the crowded street in the direction of his flat, ignoring the way his body pushes into the people around him, bumping hipbones and elbows poking. The area around the club is crowded, but not so crowded that he can't see through to the edges of the street, where darkened alley ways teem with people leaving and arriving at the same time. One in particular catches his eye. There is nothing special about it as such, nothing that really makes it stand out. It is as dark and shadowy as the other ones, the only light coming from a solitary streetlight nearby.

But in the dim glow Blaine can see a young man leaning against the rough, dank brick wall of the alleyway, his hips tilted forward and his head concealed by the darkness. Blaine feels a flush of desire spread through him as he takes in the man's tight black jeans that cling in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.

He doesn't know what it is that makes him change direction and weave through the crowds around him, actually shoving to make a pathway for himself. He doesn't react when people call after him, shove back or threaten to hit him, he just keeps forcing his way through the people in front of him until he is less than a metre away from the boy who drew him in.

_Feel the magic in the making…_

He sees a young man pause in front of the stranger, sees the guy rake his eyes downward with an ill-disguised leer. At once he is on edge, wanting to go over there and punch the guy who's looking at the mysterious boy, even though they've never met before. He grits his teeth as the young man leans in and whispers into the boy's ear, his words hidden. A few moments pass, and then the young man is shaking his head and backing away, turning around the walking in the opposite direction.

Blaine wants to do the same, but somehow his feet won't move and he can still feel the same invisible pull he felt earlier towards the stranger. Almost without his permission, his feet begin to move him forward until he has closed the last few metres and is leaning over the boy, their bodies only inches apart.

Blaine is suddenly aware of the heat between their bodies, of how if he reached out, he could trace the side of the stranger's face with his fingers, run them over the subtle lines and shifts. And then, with a jolt, Blaine realises that he hasn't seen the boy's face yet. He shifts a hand downwards, taking the boy's hand and pulling him into the dim light, where he can at least see a little better.

_We were young together…_

What he sees makes him feel like all the air in the world has been sucked away, and he is only one to notice, the only one to be standing in that dingy, dark alley, gasping for breath as though he is dying. Blaine feels like he is dying. The boy in front of him is beautiful, with elfin ears and eyes, pointed and curved perfectly. There is a strong jawbone, a pert nose and a healthy flush to the boy's cheeks. But that's not what makes Blaine pause. The boy's eyes are wide and afraid, luminous in the moonlight. They are also the most perfect shade of glasz.

"Kurt?" Blaine whispers, barely hoping to believe that it can be so, that the boy in front of him could in fact be the same one he lost so long ago. But there is something wrong about this Kurt, wrong in the way that there are hard lines about his eyes and mouth. Wrong in the thin, pearly lines that Blaine can see criss-crossing his upper arms, the skin there just a hint darker than the colour surrounding them. Wrong in the slight way that Kurt sways as he stands; his hips jutted outwards, a promise of more. Wrong in the hooded eyelids, the partly open mouth, the tight clothes that entice men and women alike.

Blaine feels a wave of nausea go through him as he considers the horrific images in his head, images of Kurt being taken and touched and used by a hundred faceless men and women, a thousand, until there is nothing new left for Blaine to discover. Kurt's eyes widen a fraction of an inch, and Blaine knows he knows it too, knows exactly what Blaine is thinking of him.

Kurt backs away slowly; his shadow melting away into the crowds behind him, and by the time Blaine has come to his senses and tried to follow him, the other boy is long gone.

oOoOo

To be continued...


	3. Your Sweet Moonbeam

A/N: So much for my summer of writing. More like my summer of writer's block. I'm really sorry to all those who've waited for this chapter, but I hope it's worth the wait.

Wine and Cheap Perfume

Chapter Three – Your Sweet Moonbeam

_I don't know why I'm frightened…_

The street is empty when Blaine visits it the following morning, the sun low on the horizon and only just beginning to bathe the murky area in light. Blaine can see the evidence of last night's frivolity all around him, can see the discarded bottles, torn condom packets and shattered green glass ground into the pavement. A solitary woman sweeps and cleans the streets, making them clean and smooth again only so that they can be defiled again the next night, and the next, and the one after that.

Blaine doesn't care about that though, or the woman who stares at him dubiously as he boycotts her raised eyebrow and heads instead over to the same shady alleyway he was in just a few precious hours before. In daylight, it looks like nothing special. Just two rough brick walls, narrow and claustrophobic to stand in. Just a patch of seedy grass on the ground, climbing up through the cracks in the pavement. Realistically, Blaine knows that is all this place is: somewhere to meet and be met, smile and greet, to fuck and be fucked.

But something deeper still, something buried so far deep inside of himself that he hardly dares to acknowledge it, he feels differently. He feels a slight tinge in the air, a slight feel of magic about the place. Because this was where he saw Kurt. Reaching out one hand slowly, he traces a solitary brick, relishing the feel of the rough surface catching on the pads of his fingers, rubbing and turning them red. Kurt leaned here, his back curved sensually forward as he looked at Blaine with those hooded eyes.

Blaine can feel something inside of himself slip at the thought, some little part of his rational mind slip away as he thinks back to that moment, to the way that Kurt's eyelashes had brushed his cheeks almost tenderly, the way his eyes had appeared so huge in the dim light. And then he flinches back as he remembers the way that Kurt ran from him, while he did nothing to call back the boy that he hadn't seen for three years.

Sighing in defeat, Blaine takes one last, lingering look around the alley, as though trying to memorize it's every curve, every delicacy, every tiny point of architecture that makes it even remotely different from all of the other ones leading away from the club. And then he straightens his back, clenches his fists tightly and leaves the alley and the club behind him. He doesn't look back.

_I know my way around here…_

The coffee shop is bustling around them as Blaine finally takes his seat opposite Henry, the medium-drip coffee scorching in his hands, the heat seeming to sear through the cardboard container and into his already blistering fingertips. He puts it down quickly, flinching a little as the too-full cup sloshes a little, allowing a small amount of liquid to spill over the sides and onto the wooden table.

At once, Blaine is flustering around, trying to mop up the spill while simultaneously trying to remember the speech he prepared on the way over here. No words come to mind, and Blaine is left floundering as a gentle hand comes and settles over his own, stilling his movements and spreading the same heat through him that he felt the other night at the club. When he looks up, Henry's eyes are warm on his face, a small smile already playing at the edges of his mouth.

"You don't have to be so nervous," Henry murmurs, stroking over the back of Blaine's hand with one thumb, tracing the soft hairs and blue veins in patterns.

_Sometimes these cuts are so much deeper than they seem…_

Blaine's head spins a little, unsure of how to proceed. Because it feels nice, having someone touch him like this again, after so long. It feels nice to sit in a coffee shop in broad daylight with a cute guy and have him stroke his hand. Already, the feeling of Kurt's faded smile is leaving him, the conviction that he entered the shop with is leaving. It might not have been Kurt the other night, it could have been someone else… and even if it was Kurt, what did that matter? Blaine has been so lonely for so long, he's forgotten what it feels like to be normal.

"Henry, the truth is I…" he starts, and then stops again, the words he wants to say fleeing from his mind at lightening pace until all he can do is sit across from Henry and stare into his cerulean eyes, feeling himself getting more and more lost by the second. The hand on his stills, Henry's fingers linking and pulling at his own until their hands are interlaced, Blaine's darker skin a startling contrast to Henry's paler tone.

_I'd rather cover up, you'd rather let them be…_

"Yes?" Henry asks, his voice soft and sure as he tugs Blaine's hand closer to his side of the table, their fingers still wound together. For a moment, Blaine considers telling him about the other night, about Kurt and the way he had looked, the way it had felt… but then he sees the concern in his date's eyes, and he knows he can't do that.

"I had a really good time the other night," he finishes lamely, feeling an odd guilty lurch when Henry's eyes light up and a smile spreads across his face.

"Me too," he murmurs, bringing Blaine's hand up to his mouth for a kiss, "me too."

_Your sweet moonbeam… the smell of you in every single dream I dream…_

Kurt's never been able to sleep well, and his insomnia has only gotten worse the longer he has spent in this new life of his. The alcohol helps, numbs his brain and dulls his thoughts until he is in a position to forget the night before, or the ones to come. Forget the impersonal, insensitive touches to his body, the rough bites marring his pale skin and the harsh hands leaving scars that will last for weeks before finally fading back as though they were never there. No one leaves their imprint for very long.

Sometimes, Kurt can't sleep because the cuts tarnishing his pale body are fresh, still liable to split back open and spill their wares back onto his skin. Sometimes it's because the cuts are older, darker and crusting over. They're the worst, the way they itch and flake and beg for Kurt to scratch at them, pull and tear at their edges until they too can pour out fresh blood.

But tonight, Kurt lies awake for a different reason. He's not thinking about the man who held him against an alley wall tonight and took him so roughly even a seasoned professional like Kurt is cried out. He's not thinking about the dull ache in his arm, where small cuts lacquer his skin into a morbid chessboard.

For the first time in years, Kurt is thinking about a boy. A boy with hazel, shifting eyes that shone with barely concealed warmth. A boy with dark, curly hair and a stocky, lean physique. A boy that once took Kurt's hand on a crowded hallway and then serenaded him like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. A boy that, only a few nights before, had stared at him like Kurt was a stranger, a person that he'd never met and had no connection to.

But that didn't matter to Kurt. What mattered was the way Blaine's eyes had sparkled, the way his pink lips had parted involuntarily and the way he had leaned in close to Kurt, so close that he could have leaned forward and captured the other boy's lips if he'd wanted to.

With a jolt, Kurt realises that his hand has drifted south and is rubbing small circles into his exposed belly, slowly slipping lower and lower. Kurt hasn't done this in a long time, and for a moment, he pulls back, aware of the crevice he is about to fall into, ready to dig his heels in, turn away and not look back. But for some reason, he doesn't. Instead, he grasps himself softly, gasping a little at how raw he feels for earlier, from the blank faced man who had paid so well to be the only one that night.

It's just as well he paid so much, Kurt thinks with a self-deprecating smile, because he wouldn't have been able to take much more. Instead, he lets his hand drift slowly up and down his shaft, feeling himself harden quickly. For someone in the sex industry, Kurt's fantasies aren't very kinky. There are no muscled men in his dreams, no car sex or voyeurism or bondage. Kurt's done all of that in real life, and more.

_There ain't nobody who can comfort me…_

Instead, his dreams are populated with boys with soft smiles and smooth hands. Boys who would kiss their way down his body, who would care about him for a change, rather than about what he can do for them. As he comes, Kurt sees nothing but a flash of hazel eyes and then he is gone.

_You let the stranger in…_

The air is crisp and cold around Kurt, his body covered in goose bumps as he stands in his usual spot, trying to pick up tricks. It's been a few days since he's done this – too scared by the ghost of Blaine and made reluctant by the small wad of money inside his pillow – but that money won't last forever, and Kurt knows what he has to do. The bricks are rough against his exposed back as he tilts his hips forward, head lowered with a seductive tilt to his rosy lips. Business is slow tonight – something about the cold air is stopping people from making their move, and Kurt feels frustration rising within him at the realisation that he may not eat tomorrow morning.

It's close to three in the morning when he finally gets a customer, an older man with a thick set moustache and thick, fumbling fingers that he runs quickly down Kurt's cheek before agreeing to his price. As they rut in the back alley, far enough away from the main street so that they won't be caught, but not so far that Kurt can't run back if he needs to, Kurt closes his eyes and lets his head loll back against the cold stone behind him. His body is being pushed up and pulled down against the harsh stone, the hands on his hips tight enough to bruise, and for once Kurt doesn't care. Let them bruise, let them paint his body in crimson stripes – it's no more than Kurt does himself.

When the stranger grunts and finishes, patting Kurt on the cheek and asking for another round but somewhere more private, Kurt agrees, something he's never done before. They stumble back to his flat, the man's hands on his waist, thighs and stomach, rubbing like there's no spare time in the world. He's rough, rougher than anyone Kurt has had before, but he doesn't care. The arch of his body is poetry, the sharp lines of his hips art. For one foolish second, Kurt imagines what Blaine would think of him like this, ripped apart and used for a stranger's pleasure. He decides he doesn't care.

By the time the man is gone, dawn is just beginning to break, and it's all Kurt can do to lock the front door and curl up into a battered ball on his bed. Outside his apartment, sitting so quietly and hardly daring to breathe, a young man closes his eyes and falls asleep.

oOoOo

To be continued...


	4. Friend in Me

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. It really does help with the writer's block!

Wine and Cheap Perfume

Chapter Four – Friend in Me

_Too late for second guessing, too late to go back to sleep…_

When Kurt wakes the next morning, his body is aching and raw, contorted into an uncomfortable arch that only seems to accentuate the dull pain he feels. He shifts slightly, hissing in pain as the sudden movement sends a sharp pain through one of his legs. Gritting his teeth, Kurt moves again, and again, gradually pulling himself upright into a sitting position on the bed. The pale skin of his chest and arms shines dully in the flaccid light streaming in from one murky window, the planes of his body covered in shocking bruises and small cuts. Grimacing, Kurt raises a hand to one of the lacerations on his chest, taking in the discoloured skin with a wince. It's enough to put him out of work for a few days, and Kurt doesn't think he charged enough last night to afford that.

_A room is still a room, even if there's nothing there but gloom…_

With his body stretched slightly and already feeling more like his own, Kurt stumbles blindly out of bed, taking relative care to avoid the sharp pieces of shattered glass that always seem to mar his floor nowadays. The flat is so small, it only takes him a few moments before he is in the area he calls a kitchen; in reality, it consists of one work surface, and a tap from which clear water doesn't always flow. Next to the tap, lying on its side on the dusky floor lays a nearly empty bottle of vodka, the glass dirty from age. Sighing, Kurt bends down to pick it up, wincing a little at the shooting pains in the back of his thighs. Kurt doesn't even have to look to know that they're a mess.

One hand grasps the bottle firmly; pulling it up off the floor and towards Kurt's waiting mouth. It takes a few tries before the rusty, sticky cap is pulled off and the sickly sweet scent of spirits hits the air. Bringing the bottle up to his lips, Kurt tips his head back as far as he can, drinking down the last few drops and feeling a flush of heat as the alcohol hits his throat. There is not enough liquid, not enough by half, it's gone too soon and Kurt is left to discard the empty bottle, throwing it haphazardly into the sink where the glass cracks slightly, but doesn't shatter.

_There's a pounding in my head…_

Stumbling again, Kurt moves to the solitary cupboard in his flat, looking through it for something to eat, to take the edge off the alcohol. It's also where he keeps his money and although Kurt doesn't find any food, there's a few worn twenty's curled up at the bottom, their edges yellowing and fraying. Allowing himself a wry smile, Kurt reaches down and strokes them reverently, before peeling one off and laying the others back down carefully.

The money looks pitiful in his clenched fist, the amount so little, barely enough for today's grocery shopping. But Kurt knows how to make money stretch and how to – if the occasion arises – slip a little extra food into the worn pockets of his fraying coat. It might not be right, and hell, only a few years ago, Kurt would never have considered it. But desperate times and all that… he doesn't have a choice. Smiling grimly, Kurt wanders aimlessly into the area he uses for sleeping; reaching one hand into the small bundle of cloth he keeps next to his mattress. Inside it is what he calls his "day clothes" – clothes that don't try to be provocative, clothes that allow him to blend in and escape the notice of everyone who might try to look for him. Kurt doubts there are many anymore, but still – it doesn't hurt to be careful.

From the bundle, Kurt pulls out a pair of worn and tattered jeans, the knees ripped open and the cuffs fraying where Kurt has tried to hem them a few times too many. A tee-shirt, one that Kurt picked up in a charity shop for a few pounds. It's not his usual style – bright red with some sort of sport's logo on the front, loose and decidedly masculine – but he doesn't really have an extensive wardrobe to choose from anymore, so he pulls it over his head. He winces a little at the stretch and pull of his abused muscles.

When he's finally, laboriously dressed, he runs a quick hand through his unkempt hair and checks his twenty dollar note is still held tightly in one hand. With one last, sweeping look around his pitiful excuse for a home, Kurt grabs his keys and pushes open the door, wincing at the dull whine of the rusty hinges as they are forced to move. What he sees stops him in his tracks. There is a man curled up asleep right in front of his door, legs pulled up protectively to his chest and face tucked into his shoulder.

For a moment, Kurt panics, his body flushing cold with horror at the idea of who this man could be, a trick gone wrong or an obsessive client taking a step too far. Kurt is just about to inch back inside slowly and call the police – not that that would do much good, they have better things to do than chase around town after a whore like him – when the man shifts a little, his face turning outwards, the features clear to see for the first time.

Seeing Blaine again, so soon after their last, horrifying encounter is almost enough to make Kurt run away again. But then he remembers; he has nowhere to go, no one to turn to and it's not like Blaine doesn't know where he lives anyway. He takes a second to study the boy in front of him. Blaine is just as he remembers; ridiculous triangular eyebrows, spidery eyelashes and slightly pouty pink lips which he wets occasionally with a subconscious sweep of his tongue. But something has changed in Blaine's face since they were teenagers; a new awareness, lines that weren't there before, and, Kurt thinks with a fond smile, the slight dusting of stubble across the boy's lower jaw.

_It's only just out of reach…_

For a second, one stupid, foolish, impulsive second, Kurt reaches out a hand; desire to touch over riding his instinct to shy away. One hand buries itself in Blaine's curly hair, longer than when they were boys and worn loose, free of the gellish confines that once held it so rigidly in place. Kurt's other hand inches lower, stroking lightly over the curve of Blaine's jaw, feeling the rough stubble under his fingertips and smiling ever so slightly at the sensation. Of all the tricks he's been with over the years, Kurt's never had the urge to touch like this, to just run his hands over somebody not to give them pleasure, or make them come, or even to speed up an unpleasant experience; but just for the joy of being close to someone.

His eyes flutter shut unconsciously, his body being taken over just by sense. For once, the building around him is quiet, the air not rent with the sounds of babies crying, women cowering or dogs barking. For once, it is still and peaceful, and for just one second, Kurt feels a sense of peace that he hasn't done in years.

"Kurt?"

Of course, that peace couldn't last. Kurt's eyes snap open, locking onto the hazel one's below him. The moment freezes again, but this time all Kurt is struck with is how compromising this must look: Blaine spread out under him, his hands all over his face. Blushing, he snatches back his hands, cradling them possessively to his chest. He and Blaine stare at each other in mutual silence, the lack of sound no longer freeing but oppressive. Kurt thinks desperately for something to say, but everything sounds stupid, childish, immature. Nothing can begin to describe the emotions that he feels, being so close to Blaine again after so long.

Slowly, so slowly that Kurt feels he is going to die if Blaine doesn't hurry up, Blaine reaches out a hand and places it on Kurt's collarbone, over a large and particularly nasty bruise he obtained the night before. Something about the gentleness of the gesture, the pity in Blaine's eyes jolts Kurt back to the present. They aren't teenagers anymore; Kurt is a common whore, and Blaine is nothing to him. Nothing. The realisation causes him to flinch back, Blaine's hand falling from his skin. Kurt feels cold where he isn't being touched anymore, and he can see Blaine's eyes darken with something Kurt has never seen there before.

_It's not unusual, to be mad with anyone…_

"You left." It's quiet in the eerie silence of the hallway, a statement, not accusing in any way. Blaine's tone is soft and calm, but Kurt feels his anger rising anyway, threading its way through his veins until he stands suddenly, back against his door. He doesn't want Blaine anywhere near him, he doesn't want this shadow of his past hanging around for a second longer. He makes as though to turn away, to get back into his flat and lock the memory of Blaine Anderson away forever, but before he can move, Blaine's hand grasps his wrist, tearing at the self-inflicted wounds there. Kurt howls in rage and pain, the awful sound slashing the air around them but still Blaine doesn't step back.

"Get off of me," Kurt growls from low in his throat, his body jerking as he tries to shake Blaine loose. Blaine won't move, though, clinging to Kurt like an annoying child might cling to its mother.

"Why? So you can disappear again?" Blaine snaps back, his tone frigid and cold. His hand on Kurt's wrist is like a vice, the heat of it conflicting with the pain that Kurt feels at Blaine's presence. Because this is too close, too much. Kurt can feel the desperation in him rising, the fervent need to drink or cut or fuck; anything to take away from the dull pain in his chest that is threatening to overwhelm him.

"That's not fair." Kurt mutters, finally jerking his wrist away. He can feel where some of the cuts have torn open, the blood seeping into his shirt sleeves grotesquely. He ignores it, focusing on the boy – man – in front of him, chest heaving erratically and eyes wider than Kurt has ever seen them before.

"Not fair? Damn it Kurt, we could have helped! We wanted to help. You didn't have to leave." Blaine's voice breaks slightly towards the end, his emotions beginning to overwhelm him. He can see Kurt's eyes soften slightly, the fight also going out of his frame. For the first time, Blaine notices how tired and run down Kurt looks. The oversized shirt Kurt is wearing would have swamped his figure even when Blaine first met him, but Blaine's willing to bet that the other boy's body is practically skeletal now. When he speaks, Kurt's voice is low and soft, a world away from the fire and anger it had held mere moments before.

"Yes, I did. And I think you should leave now." Blaine wants to argues, wants to pin the other boy to the wall and keep talking to him until he sees reason. But something in the tone of voice he uses, something about the dejected slump of Kurt's shoulders stops him. Instead, Blaine smiles softly, and nods.

"Fine. But I'm coming back again." When Kurt opens his mouth, as though to protest, Blaine just smiles again wryly and turns to leave, "I lost you once, Kurt. I'm not doing it again." As Blaine rounds the corner and makes it out on to the street, Kurt slumps back against the wall, slides to the ground and groans lowly.


End file.
